[hider=Fjolte]
[center][B]Name:[/B] Fjolte ‘the Fabler’ Dhjarikson
[B]Race:[/B] Nord
[B]Sex:[/B] Male
[B]Age:[/B] 31
[B]Birthsign:[/b] The Steed
[B]Family Origins:[/B] Nordic - Rorikstead - Skyrim


_________________[/center]

[center][B]Appearance:[/B]
[img]http://i64.tinypic.com/15rm8u1.jpg
[/img][/center]

[indent]Standing proud at 6’5”, Fjolte is tall even by Nord standards. He is well built too, years of keeping himself physically fit has given him a well muscled body. He is absolutely solid, and stays this way by practicing his martial arts, and with acrobatic acts as part of a regular morning routine. He has a typically strong jawline for his race, gifted to him by his father. His eyes are ocean blue and of a thin almond shape. Were it not for his constant smile, they might appear to be intense and overly piercing. He has several thin scars across his face, most noticeably over his forehead, and a diagonal scar across his cheek. 

He has bronze brown hair that he keeps trimmed shorter at the sides than on top, and styled with a quick comb each day. Little else is needed. He does not let it grow much longer than this. He keeps his beard trimmed more as subtle stubble under his lower lip to his chin, and over his jawline. 

For such a sturdy man, Fjolte has a soft air around him, and a warm smile that could light up a room and is infectious. His fun and easy-going personality takes over his appearance at times and he is not in the least bit intimidating. That said, when it comes to matters of the heart - and when it comes to protecting his friends or standing up for his beliefs, then it can all melt away in a second, and glimpses of Fjolte ‘The Slayer’ can slip through quite easily. These times are extremely rare, and it pains him to ever have to get serious enough to have to rely on pure intimidation.

Fjolte chooses to dress casually in light armour at all times. Opting for a simple cotton waistcoat jacket lined with crows feathers around the neck - were it not for the two polished silver brooch buttons studded with blue quartz, it wouldn’t be remarkable at all. It is absolutely not typical of Nord fashion, and he actually had the jacket made in Elsewyr from a an old cotton shirt of his, and the feathers were collected by Fjolte from the top of a mountain in a nest which he climbed as part of his training with the Whispering Fang monks. The jacket is a reminder of his journey, and thus, is one of his most prized possessions and he feels honoured to wear it.

He has a tattoo over his left shoulder, travelling down his entire chest to his waist. A tribal/abstract depiction of a bird in flight.


[B]Personality:[/B]
A braggadocious shit talker. This is how you would describe Fjolte upon first impression. Over the years he has managed to adopt a personality of pure arrogance and overconfidence. He has spent much of his recent years as the de facto leader of his ever changing band of misfits, and this has given him cause to act in such a way - he is an entertaining, charismatic young man who doesn’t take life too seriously, but can’t resist embellishing his achievements to those who will listen. Those who take him at the face value are very often proved completely wrong, given enough time. 

He is very extroverted, and finds it natural and easy to communicate with others from all walks of life. The interest that he has in others is genuine and well-meaning, almost to a fault – he can often become too involved problems and his trait of empathy means that sometimes he will mistakenly carry other people's problems and make them his own. More often than not, putting his trust in others has helped them become better people in the end. To help people is something he sees as his duty in life. With that said, he will never push at people when they are not ready, and he knows that some people are beyond his help, by his nature he is not overbearing.

Fjolte can at times be too sensitive, it’s easy for him to take things to heart and feel others problems when that aren’t his own, getting lost in trying to fix them, worrying if he is doing enough. His self esteem has a tendency to eb and flow too, with constant worrying of whether he can live up to his ideals. It hits him especially hard if he fails in a task, more so if it was something meaningful and sentimental in nature. As someone who values relationships and friendship over most things in life, Fjolte finds it near impossible to make tough decisions, especially if he is against the clock, he gets too caught up in weighing up potential consequences that he misses the chance to take action.

Of course, he is incredibly flirtatious, using his charisma to win him over with members of the opposite sex. He takes great pleasure in getting to know new people, and his charisma makes it easy for him to work his way into the lives of those he meets, whether that is in a large or small capacity. [i]He leaves an impression.[/i] That’s not to say that he can’t act the dashing rogue to impress however - often reading his would-be suitor and changing his approach on the fly. He loves love, and will do just about anything for it, and hey, if it can’t be love - he’ll take the pleasure too.

Overall, Fjolte is incredibly charismatic- even if that is quite easily read as cockiness, getting to know him reveals his deeper layers. He has endless energy and a vivid imagination which he puts to good use in his storytelling, and of course he cares very deeply about those he travels with, placing time spent with people forming connections and developing relationships as being more important than the task and mission at hand. 

[hr]

[B]Equipment:[/B]
*Specialist leather fingerless gauntlets.
*Red hand wraps that he wears wrapped around his waist, as a belt when not in use
*Light armour in the form of a crow-feather lined jacket, loose cropped pants with fur trims, and leather boots. 
*A leg guard on his left leg to power his kicks.
*Steel Nordic Warhammer - Faithkeeper
*Several necklaces

[B]Misc. Possessions:[/B]
* A copper prayer bell
* Incense cones
* A pouch of [i]'herbs'[/i]
* A smoking pipe
* Sleeping Tree Sap
* Coin purse with 84 septims

[hr]

[B]Family and Associations:[/B]
*Berek Dhjarikson - Father - Alive
*Yvka Dhjarikson - Mother - Alive
*Helga Dhjarikson - Sister - Alive
*Honon the Fat - Brother-in-Law - Alive
*Astrid and Risica - Nieces - Alive
*Merna Antanius - Sister - Deceased
*Raelynn Hawkford - Friend/ex-Lover - Alive
*Daro’Vasora - ex-companion - Alive

[hr]

[B]Favoured Skills:[/B]
[b]Highly Proficient -[/b] 
Hand-to-Hand

[indent][i]Fighting Style[/i]

Whispering Fang - Quick and deadly jabs, swift on his feet, uses his environment to turn the tide of a fight. Fjolte was taught as much of this method as he could learn by Khajiit monks in Elsewyr. His Nord physique made it impossible to fully adopt, since the style relies heavily on the use of the Khajiit’s claws and tail. It was his first foray into Hand-to-Hand style, and became the skeleton to develop his own…

Singing Fist - Using breathing techniques, Fjolte moves defensively to wear out his opponent, powering up his punch to land on specific parts of the body to inflict the most damage and take the least stamina from himself. He doesn’t believe that you should hurt anyone more than is necessary, and his deadly Singing Fist can knock down an opponent in a single hit if he lands it at a particular spot. This technique was developed in High Hrothgar after meditating with the Greybeards, it is perfectly aligned to his body and unique to him. 

Steel Fist - Another of his own creations, similar to Singing Fist, but far more offensive and aggressive. He makes use of heavy punches and low kicks, wearing his opponents down by delivering punches to the body and heavy low kicks as well as elbow and knee strikes. This stance places him closer to his opponent, relying more on strikes unlike with his Singing Fist which is very acrobatic and places him away. [/indent]

Speech

[b]Moderately Proficient[/b] 
Acrobatics
2H (Warhammer)

[b]Somewhat Proficient[/b]
Athletics

[hr]
 
[B]History:[/B]


[centre][b]BASED ON A TRUE STORY - [i]Some[/i] of the events in this tale may have been dramatised for effect, and some may be entirely untrue.[/b][/centre]

I was once a warrior. 

A man on a mission for blood like most Nords. I was raised with that warriors spirit. The Spitfire of Skyrim they called me, and even as a tiny tot I was swinging an axe. Of course, back then it was made of some flimsy wood. My father made it for me to play with and keep me occupied in an attempt to stop me from terrorising my sisters and mother while he was away. It wasn’t until I was 5 that I was given my first real axe! I know what you’re thinking, that’s a little old - you’d be correct. Anyway I looked after that weapon as if it were part of me, I chopped all of the firewood for my mother, took care of any rogue creatures that found their way onto our farm... You know, just regular Nord behaviour. I was a large and stocky child and so I was a trusted and vital part of our family unit - I was getting into work as soon as I could possibly do it. I’m a provider you see. 

But here is where my story gets interesting… You might want to dim the lights and get [i]real[/i] close for this… So I have two sisters - older. Absolute Hagravens the two of them. Helga and Merna, twins! They have 10 years on me, so as you can imagine when I was young they’d already become hormonal and tempestuous as women do. Like I said, [i]Hagravens[/i]. Banshees. Demons. But, I did love them and they loved me too. Once I was around 11 years of age I had to protect them from unwanted attention and the like, they were at the marriage age and they had their fair amount of suitors. Us Dhjarikson’s are known for our looks you see. Helga and Merna didn’t really possess any kind of talent or propensity for anything of substance, if you ask me they were both a little bit spoilt and had never lifted one of their delicate little fingers to help in any meaningful way.

Hold up, I may have gotten ahead of myself. You can back up a little - get the lights back up. I need to tell you something else first. 

So I was around 11 when I genuinely took up the art of the Two-Handed combat seriously. I trained under my father Berek who was known as a fearsome warrior throughout Rorikstead and the surrounding areas. I loved the weight and feel of a real Nordic Warhammer, and so that was what I trained with. He was a true blue Nord man of honour, and a damn good father too, cared about us all. I couldn’t have asked for better parents if I had tried. Sure, my mother would take her belt off and give me a hiding if I was being a young scamp, which was often… But she loved us. What I’m trying to sell here is a good family upbringing. You’re getting that aren’t you? Good. 

So, by 16 I was off trekking with my father - we adventured together and I’ll be honest, it was some of the best times of my life. Cave crawling with ol’ Berek. Brings a tear to my eye to think about it now. I think we take for granted moments like those when we’re in them, it’s not until after the fact that we see them for what they were and find the real beauty. Anyway, I’m getting carried away. I have a tendency to do that… So I like to call this period of my life “The Good Times”. Father and I were making decent coin on hunts and the like, bonding as father and son only can. Must have lasted for about 4 years. 4 years of utter, violent bliss. 

By that point, Helga and Merna had both married, Helga bore 2 daughters - my nieces! Astrid and Risica! Two beautiful little girls too, and boy did I spoil them rotten. Bought them all kinds of gifts, would visit and tell them my stories. They love their Uncle Fjolte, let me tell you. It helps that Helga is an amazing cook and she’d put on these huge feasts for our family which allowed us all to get together and reminisce about the old days and make new memories. I still remember Astrid trying her first ale at 8! Helga’s husband was a hell of a man too, he’d join us on hunts sometimes. If you think I’m big… Well, you should have seen Honon the Fat. I said that Helga was a good cook right? Well, yes she was and I suspect that’s why Honon just kept growing and growing and [i]growing[/i]. He couldn’t get enough, and you know what? I think Helga loved him more for it. Anyway his appetite was for food and not violence and so he stopped travelling with us after a time. Stayed at home to raise his children. Now there was that unfortunate incident where he did spring a trap in a cave and lost an arm - but no, I don’t think that’s why he stopped. 

But Merna… Well her husband was a rake of a man. Lean, with sharp features and dark, gaunt eyes. I don’t know what she saw in him. Oh and get this, he was an [i]Imperial[/i]. I know. I know... But we let her do what she wanted. His name was Venato. You’re right, what kind of a name is that? I asked that question myself a few times. What I will say about Imperial’s though - on the whole they’re brave and honourable, right? Well this bastard wasn’t. He was a coward. I think he had been sickly as a child and just grew up without a spine. None of it made sense to me, anyway he wanted to take his wife back to Cyrodiil to meet his family. This is when it gets dark…

So, Merna was 30, had been married to Venato for about 5 years and yet only then did he think it was time to take her to Cyrodiil… I don’t know it made little sense to me at the time. So, he took her and we just… Never heard from her again, no letters, no updates - nothing. Something wasn’t right. My father travelled to Bruma to find her. We were all so worried - it had been months without a word, and I already explained how close of a unit we were, didn’t I? As it turned out, Merna and Venato were raided by bandits on the way to Bruma and she was kidnapped. That damned coward never told us, never fought for her, nothing - he just fled. It still makes me blood boil to think about it….

That’s when my life changed, anyway. I… would not stop searching for her. I spent a long time in a bloodthirsty rage looking for her, it took me two years if you can believe it. Following every lead I could. I believe my mother and father had mourned her but I never did. I was her brother - sworn to protect her from a young age like I was… I couldn’t give up. Gods, I even blamed the Imperials in general - and that’s what lead me to join the Stormcloaks during the rebellion you know. I wanted to get back at those pricks. Every Imperial I brought my Warhammer down on was Venato. Sorry, I’m getting off track...

My search for Merna was fruitless, there are countless bandit groups in Skyrim and Cyrodiil. It seemed each one was worse than the last. Eventually though - I found her, my Merna. She was in the wilds around Dawnstar. I don’t know exactly where, all I know is that she was in trouble and I went through that bandit camp in a berserker’s rage until I met their leader… He was dressed in bear furs - the head of a bear stretched over his helmet. A fearsome fellow…

[b]Logvsim Scar-Fire[/b]

He was gnarled with burns, a gruesome individual - and he just… I’m ashamed to say it but he tore through me as if I was nothing but a piece of flimsy parchment. I was so angry and reckless. I didn’t know it then, but that’s why I lost. As I lay in the snow, sprawled and ready for death, my Merna - she gave him a killing blow. Stabbed him in the neck with a dagger. It wasn’t enough though and he instead used his last bit of strength to drop his… He just dropped his axe right through her. The sight still haunts me and I doubt it will ever truly be something I come to terms with.

I killed her, in the end. It was my fault she died - if only I’d mourned her like my parents, she might have still been alive. I wonder sometimes if she was there by choice and if she enjoyed the way of life of a bandit. These are answers that I robbed myself of because of my behaviour, it’s the closure that I’m forbidden from ever having. About 9 years ago now, seems like only yesterday.

So there I was, stumbling towards Dawnstar - bleeding out, life fading… That’s when I met [i]her[/i]. Let me tell you, when you’re close to death everything seems so beautiful, and that’s the only word I can use to describe her. Beautiful. A young healer from the College I expect, sat astride a shining black horse. Her hair flowing to her hips, wrapped in fur, and cheeks pink from the cold. She was absolutely glowing. I still remember her first words to me, “what in Nirn did you do? You complete halfwit.” Off she got from the horse, used her magicka to patch me up and gave me a potion for the road. She of course, rode off and left me there. She may have taken my coin purse too - but I didn’t care. Let me tell you, I was completely enamoured.

With my second chance given to me, I continued on with the Stormcloaks - I was still one big angry bastard and I got a reputation for myself. They started calling me Fjolte the Slayer, and I loved it. People feared me. I was in peak physical shape, swinging my Warhammer into all of my adversaries, spraying blood against snow on a daily basis. 

I fought at Windhelm… It was an absolute massacre, as soon as Ohdaviing came through - well we knew we were fucked. We still fought on though, I was lucky. I wasn’t touched by his flame, and I made it out with my life. I’m ashamed to say it but I stripped my colours from my body after the Imperial Empire’s victory. I was not without injury, and I stayed to help move some of the bodies - which is when I saw her again, for the second time. I’d recognise her anywhere. Dressed in white like some Priestess, only, she was covered in blood too - and older now, only by a couple of years but I could see it in her face. She was terrified and out of her depth and yet she was trying her best. I helped her out. I think staying by her side as she healed men from both sides was the only reason I didn’t get a sword put through me… She didn’t recognise me as the ‘halfwit’ from Dawnstar, probably for the best. I still remember what she said to me that day too, “get out of my way, you useless oaf.” Poetry, honestly. 

It was a while more until I saw her again, I think the next time I saw her she was working in Taverns around Skyrim as a healer. Well, as I do - I got injured again and found my way to her. She didn’t recognise me as the ‘useless oaf’ from Windhelm, probably for the best. But this time we got to talking, she chastised me for carrying so much anger in me. Said it would put me in the grave, and that I had to calm myself down if I wanted to live a long life. She also said that I had terrible posture from carrying my axe the wrong way. I laughed in her face, but she was right. My whole life - I thought I was great with that weapon, turns out I was nothing but mediocre and incredibly lucky. She was feisty and brash that day, but she told the truth and I appreciated her all the more for it. She had looked me up and down and read me like a book. It was the kick up the arse I needed to start over. 

That’s pretty much all of the darkness now, you don’t have to worry about any more. Quite a tale though, right?

I took the advice of that mage and I went… Oh, I don’t want to spout a cliche - but I went soul searching. It was in Elsewyr when I stumbled upon a group of travelling Khajiiti Monks, they were masters of the Whispering Fang technique and I was fascinated. I never did figure out why they let me travel with them for so long, let alone why they taught me in the way of Whispering Fang, but they did. I like to think that they just saw a man all alone in this world, carrying a great burden on his lofty shoulders. I don’t have the claws or the tail of a Khajiit, but they taught me all they knew, and for a Nord… Well, to my utmost surprise they said I was a natural at Hand-to-Hand.

They were gentle people, but deadly in combat. They taught me to step softly and gracefully, as well as to fight defensively and swiftly. They had me doing all kinds of things… From front flips, to back flips, to cartwheels, to diving off of cliff faces into cold waters. Sometimes I think I was just a source of entertainment to them, but they taught me a lot. My Khajiit brothers! I toast to them quite often. Why did I leave them, you ask? Well, I felt at that time in my life I had softened and changed. My anger was almost gone - but Skyrim called me back. There is something about Skyrim, isn’t there?

I bid them goodbye, and closed that chapter on my life. I was now 27 years old, with a new life ahead of me. There was one thing on my mind - the woman. Now, I’m not going to over-embellish. I was not the powerful Monk you see today back then, sure - I had some tricks up my sleeve and a powerful punch, but I wasn’t fully formed. I returned to my family! Helga, and her children were excited to see me and hear my stories of the world, my mother was too. But Berek… My father, well I could see in the way that he deflated that he was ashamed of me for burying my hammer, leaving the Stormcloaks and… well, fleeing. That’s what he saw. He saw a deserter. He could no longer see that I was a proud Nord. He just saw a travelled man who had shed his own heritage. I don’t blame him, I too used to take things at face value. 

I doubt our relationship will ever be repaired. He tolerates me at best for the sake of keeping our family together, especially in the face of the tragedy of Merna. We barely share a word with each other at the feasts, but I pay it no mind. I still love him, and always will. I do not let his presence deter me from making my nieces, sister, and mother happy either. Of course, Honon the Fat is always overjoyed to hear my latest stories. In fact, it was the Fat Man himself who gave me my latest nickname - Fjolte the Fabler! I’m known throughout the lands for my tales of bravery.

Some people call me Fjolte, some call me Fabler - there are a few that still call me Slayer but they are few and far between. It’s not how I choose to live my life, I’m a lover not a fighter. Which of course brings me [i]almost[/i] to the joyous climax of my story. 

So I had known this woman for a few years now. Or well, I had encountered her a number of times already. This time, I would encounter her as a changed man! I chased the tales of the Witch Bitch of Riverwood, and I knew that was her. I knew it. I found her there, even more radiant and tempestuous than I had remembered. She didn’t recognise me, probably for the best. I exchanged some coin for her to check me over, let me tell you - she gave every rippled muscle an in-depth examination. I finally learned her name this time too, Raelynn. A name truly as beautiful as she was. Yet, she still admonished me - still she saw that I was arrogant and was holding tension through my whole body. She said I hadn’t let go of something yet, well I didn’t know what in Oblivion she was talking about, and that meeting did not end as I thought it would, but yet again she was right. 

It made me angry, actually. Do you want to know what I did? I starting running up the 7000 steps to High Hrothgar. It felt good. That cold wind in my lungs the higher I got? Exhilarating. Dodging the Frost Troll towards the apex? Terrifyingly fun. So I met the Greybeards, anyway. Not surprising that they were still kicking around even after the Dovahkiin had nicked off elsewhere you know? But I started spending time up there. Practicing my arts in the courtyard, meditating with them. 

They even taught me to shout, but honestly I was that good at it in the end they had to request that I never do it again or else it may rip a hole through all of Tamriel. Fair enough right? No, don’t ask me to demonstrate it, please, I made a promise.

I took the principles of the Whispering Fang and I moulded it to what I knew about being a Nord, aligned it to my body - made it [i]mine[/i]. I don’t have a name for it, but if I did it would be the Singing Fist, with my secondary stance being the Steel Fist. Not that I’ve thought about it at all or anything. 

I started paying attention to everything around me, found faith especially in Kyne. Sky, Air, Wind… You know what it is right? It’s breath, it’s life. It was learning to breathe again that allowed me to exhale all anger and hatred from my body. The cold air of High Hrothgar? It was her grace. But oh of course, I do worship the Divines now. I pray and meditate on them - they keep me on my path, they help me in my duty to get others on their path too. I was given so many chances and it brought me to this road. The least I can do is share my story - inspire, and… help others to find the light and to find fulfillment and happiness as I have. 

Yes, it’s true - I took up treasure hunting in order to keep food in my stomach and a roof on my head most nights. It’s not a noble profession, but… I need to keep food in my stomach and a roof on my head. So I trawled Skyrim with my group, what a bunch of lads we were, looting through the day and knocking back ale through the night. We had such a camaraderie. You know, there was Ravar the Altmer mage, Ri’isa the shy and unassuming Khajiit - but if you got a drink down her she was as rowdy as us boys and told the dirtiest jokes! I travelled with an Argonian too, his name was Weeleel and he liked to tell riddles to occupy our minds on the long hikes. I met so many people from every walk of life imaginable.

There were those who would come and go too. I met a sassy young Khajiit woman called Daro’Vasora and she helped me out of a spell at one point, and the two of us celebrated that one after a few ales. Headstrong that one, I like that in a woman. Then Raelynn would sometimes come with us - shit, wait! Put a pause here.

So after I’d become a new man, again, I went back to Riverwood to see Raelynn, only she wasn’t there anymore, she’d moved on to greener pastures - literally! She was working in Riften. Well, I had to go and see her. I actually really did too because I’d finally found myself square on with that damn Frost Troll. I had an ice burn on my shoulder that I’d left unattended. Still have a slight scar you know, I’ll show you later. So the Frost Troll and I duked it out, I ended up landing a deadly punch on his nose that sent him flying off the edge of the mountain and tumbling down. It was a difficult fight, but he wasn’t really a match in the end once I hit my stride. 

She scolded me for my stupidity and patched me up which at that point I’d recognised was par for the course with her, but when she was tending to me this time there was something warm about her - she even smiled at me a few times, she also laughed at my jokes and listened to my stories. I think she only rolled her eyes once. We may have gotten closer that night if you know what I mean... 

So, back to camaraderie and treasure hunting! So Raelynn would join us every so often. She demanded a pretty price though, we all learned why she was known as the Witch Bitch… Difficult, spoilt, always ready to shove someone else in front of the trouble. But she was my friend, she’d helped me on my path so I let her get on with it. 

I think that was my favourite part of it all. It wasn’t scoring the loot, it wasn’t the thrill of the hunt. It was the late nights around a campfire throwing back ales and eating our provisioned food - just talking. The brotherhood of it all. There were a lot of other women who came along with us too, each one found me charming and that was the other thing that I enjoyed so much - chasing the women. Each one a challenge in her own way. What can I say? I’m a lover, not a fighter. 

I didn’t just booze up over a campfire either, I must have hit every tavern in Skyrim at least once. I’m no bard but I’m very partial to belting out my own songs, shuffling my way over the floorboards in a series of whirling dances. The ladies love it. So, my dancing may have been a bit suggestive for some of them, but for plenty it did the trick.

I was living the dream - had a good group of friends and comrades by my side and then it seemed like the world was plunged into chaos overnight when the Dwemer arrived. It seems like a complete blur to me how I wound up in this prison, in Hammerfell of all places - but I know that we fought like true Nords when we were apprehended in the western mountains. I really suppose that’s how I found myself here… Thrown in chains on a cart and dragged from place to place until they finally threw me in this cell. And for what? I’ll never know.

Some people would say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but me? Well my brother, I think I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Kynareth herself blew me this way for a reason, and I guess we’re about to learn why...[/indent]



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